Sanctity
by Aista
Summary: It will pass. (A tribute)


Disclaimer: I own nothing but the original concepts.

...

Whiterun was used to Lucia by now.

The guards didn't even bother to chase her anymore. It was a huge relief because now she could sit in the courtyard without getting into trouble. It was her favourite spot and the best one because it was near the Temple and Jorrvaskr. Lots of Nords were willing to part with septims when they saw the building that looked like a boat.

Brenuin had been the only person to help her. The first winter she'd been kicked off the farm she'd nearly died. He'd been looking under the bridge near the Meadery for nirnroot but found her lying still and skinny as a draugr instead. She was lucky. The Redguard smelt bad and sounded mean but he was the kindest person in Whiterun. He'd taught her how to look even more pathetic than she already looked and hadn't even asked for any of the coin. He'd even refused what she'd offered; just ruffled her hair and told her to hide it.

She sighed and looked up. The Gildergreen was the prettiest tree she'd ever seen even though it didn't have any leaves. Many of its branches twisted in the strangest ways. Some grew straight up, others curled and the rest twisted outward like they were reaching for something. It looked so lonely and sad. There was a funny looking bump on the trunk too, her finger traced it curiously.

Here she couldn't help but wonder about her Mama and what she'd think. She used to say 'life's not a sweet roll dove, chin up'. She used to say lots of things. She really missed her Mama.

"I wish …"

This was a bad habit but she couldn't help it. She'd lost count of how many times she'd wished for her Mama and wished for how things were before. The day had been beautiful at first. Mama had sent her to check on the mudcrab traps down by their creek. She could remember being upset because her dress got wet and a crab nearly got her finger. It took the whole morning to lug everything back and by then it was too late. Bandits had set fire to the mill and taken everything of value including her Mama. That was two winters ago but she could still smell the smoke and blood. Sometimes out of the corner of her eye she could see her Mama, but by the time she looked it was always someone else.

That day was the day her world ended. After, everything just … stopped. The sun stopped. The birds stopped. Their cows and their bees stopped. She stopped. And even though she was his niece, her uncle had no love for her. He was a businessman and the farm was his now and she was an 'unnecessary expense'. But it was the loss of her Mama, the one that made honey treats with the honey from their bees and the flour from their mill, the one that tucked her in and told her stories each night, it was that loss that hurt. It felt like one of her uncle's knives had gotten stuck in her chest. It was sharp and cold; every breath stung and every step was twice as hard. The baddest— no the _worst_ thing was that it felt like it could stay there forever. She bit her lip and pressed her palm to her chest; it was still there, sharp and cold.

"I wish—"

The distinctive crunch of gravel under foot quickly brought her out of her reverie. There was a figure standing near her bench looking up at the tree. Lucia was pretty sure she'd never seen this person around before. It was true lots of travellers came to Whiterun but most of them were farmers and hunters trading their wares. Mercenaries tended to linger for only so long as it took to get their next job and pilgrims had a certain look to them. This person seemed … dangerous; she'd bet a creme treat even Braith would be scared.

"Could you spare a coin mister?"

Hopefully there'd be no harm in trying. There were guards everywhere and well, if she ran from every scary-looking person she'd be running all the way out of Skyrim; the Nords were all big and terrifying. Plus she'd starve and that was a feeling even worse than being cold.

The figure turned to her fully. She could see it was definitely a 'him'. His armour was black and way nicer looking than even Irileth's and she was the Jarl's own housecarl! He wore a cowl that covered his whole face except for the shadows where his eyes glittered. He studied her now, and Lucia suddenly had the unnerving feeling that this must be how the elk feels right before the wolf decides whether or not the chase is worth it.

Her mouth went dry and she swallowed but didn't look away. A snort and then a glittering septim spun into her lap.

"Wishes cut both ways girl," he drawled, "you never know who might be listening."

She flinched all the way to her toes and quickly tucked the coin into her pocket.

"Where are your parents?"

Oh Divines, she'd really done it now! Usually they just threw gold at her to shut her up; they didn't actually _notice_ her that was the whole point.

"Mama was kil—_murdered_ by bandits," she muttered, "Mama never talked about my father."

The bench suddenly seemed a whole lot smaller with him sitting on it.

"Where do you sleep?"

She stared at her feet. "Hulda lets me stay behind the tavern if I help her with the tables."

Silence. Lucia actually thought for a moment that the man had left. But no, it seemed he was one of those people that always did everything quietly including breathing.

"You know I have a spare room that you might like," he announced, "and my son, Alesan's around your age, he mightn't get into as much trouble with you around."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Was this man crazy? Why would he want a dirty little Imperial like her?

"I don't—"she gasped, "wha— why?"

He looked at her and his eyes were so dark that they actually seemed to suck in the light.

"What is your name girl?"

She blinked. "Lucia."

"For now, you may call me Hadrian."

He leaned back then, his face turned upwards. The sunlight painted odd patterns onto his cowl.

"Sometimes Lucia, there are things in life that can't be fixed," he murmured, "but there are also some things that can and if I'm in a position to do so, I will try to fix them."

She could feel herself gaping.

"So," he stood and swung his satchel over his shoulder. "I have business with the Jarl but then we can be off. How does that sound?"

Lucia stared, stared and then stared some more. Where did this even come from? Was this some illusion sent by Sheogorath?

"I—," she pressed her palm to her chest and looked up, "thank you."

It wasn't gone. In fact the hole where her Mama used to be was still there and the knife still stung and maybe it couldn't be fixed either.

Maybe it could only pass.

...

"Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like?"...

"It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine..."

_― Frances Hodgson Burnett, __The Secret Garden_

...

A/N:

This was written as the Gaza conflict flashed across my TV, to the sound of resistance in Ukraine and with the smoking remains of Malaysia Airlines Flight 17 heavy in my mind. I wrote this thinking of children. Thinking of the fear, the confusion and the pain they must have felt when these sorts of horrors found them or were imposed upon them. I won't kid myself thinking this will in any way amount to a fitting tribute, but writing it made me feel better.

How do we decide which deaths matter, and which don't; which ones are galling and tragic, and which ones are mere statistics? We tell ourselves we care about the loss of innocent life. We talk about the 'sanctity of life' as though it's a cardinal, unwavering principle, but the truth is a lot of the time we have a shrugging acceptance of it. What does that tell us about ourselves?

Thanks for reading.

NB: Image belongs to RiinomS on deviantart.


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